Falling, Floating

I do want to continue from my previous post (surely there’s a great deal more to explore there, and much has/had happened between April 1 and January 1), but right now, a few other things. Oh, wait…before I move on—to those of you who have mentioned this blogpost but didn’t know what to say about it, please, don’t worry…I know it’s a sensitive topic. Very often I tell these things as if it’s no big deal (I can become strangely clinical when writing sad events), but it does mean a lot to me to know that you care. In other news…

I’m sad that the world has lost Gerry Rafferty this week. Most people think of Stuck in the Middle With You—perhaps even more, they think of Michael Madsen, ear lobes, and gasoline. For you, here’s this:

For me, Baker Street was always the Gerry Rafferty song. For all of my parents’ shortcomings, I do feel truly indebted to them for introducing me to so many great songs as a girl. I was the one stacking, unstacking, and restacking the 33s and 45s, and I took a great deal of pride in my job. Always resting the needle without a scratch, from the earliest age. This song is the kind of song that can be playing on my alarm at 6 am—before sun or coffee or coherent thoughts—and I won’t hit snooze. I can’t say that about very many songs. Don’t ask me what it is—though usually for me it has to be a killer combo of lyrics and instrumentals. This song does that for me:

When I told my 62 year-old father (whose health has been declining this year, who’s been watching his friends die one after another) that Gerry died at 63, he was quiet a moment, then we talked about songs. Before we hung up, I could tell his throat got tight (as it always does when he’s choking the weight of the world back), and he said, “Thanks for letting me know about Gerry Rafferty, Lis.” If I live to be 100, I’ll never understand the paradoxical nature of my father.

Nor will I understand the birds, falling from the sky in Arkansas and Sweden, and the fish floating to the surface of so many bodies of water. What’s happening? I’m sure that religious fanatics and 2012ers are flippin’ their lids, but I’m not going to pretend it’s not worrisome to me—being a very spiritual yet completely unreligious person. Fireworks? Power lines? Cold water? I’m not buyin’ it. I’m going to say those power lines weren’t recently strung. I’m also going to say that water’s gone cold before. I’m even going to guess that they have, on occasion, been known to light a few fireworks in Arkansas. To all the bullshitters out there…how about telling us something that even a third grader wouldn’t question?

Finally, thanks to editors Allyson Bogess and Kathleen Winter at Hayden’s Ferry Review for selecting “Barefoot on the Pulpit” for inclusion in issue #48, due out in mid-April. Glad that this Sewanee-inspired poem has found such a good home!

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